


let me give you my light

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [114]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, in like a really weird way, mostly it's just about the Dynamic, semi-uprising fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 09:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21389983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: “I miss you,” Hermann tells him; head resting against his shoulder; fingers knotting the frayed edges of the blanket together.Newt blinks at him; slow. “You miss having someone you know around,” he corrects.“No, I missyou,” Hermann says.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [114]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Kudos: 41





	let me give you my light

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "what if...what if Hermann succeeded in saving Newt but sacrificed his life doing so?"

Newt wonders, sometimes, how this would have turned out had things gone differently; the ghost of possibilities layering his mind.

He is a brilliant man. 

He probably overthinks things too much; he should be happy, really, that they’re gone, but it hangs over him; Hermann’s sacrifice; gnaws at his mind.

Would he have done the same?

* * *

It goes like this: the world is going to end. It’s Newt’s fault.

He’s triggered the Breaches already; fingers tapped in the fatal sequence, and he smiles, wide; smug, though he’s screaming inside. 

“I’m ending the world,” they say in his voice, with his mouth.

Several things happen at once; one: Newt hears the click of a gun; the hissed breath of surprise Hermann draws; mere centimetres away from him. 

Two: Shao’s voice, snarling a, “I will _not_ let you ruin my life’s work!”

Three: Hermann’s moving before the gun even fires; and suddenly he’s doubling over, cane clattering to the ground as he falls, and Newt feels the phantom echo of pain.

The gun drops to the ground as Shao retreats.

Suddenly, then; silence.

He can no longer feel Hermann breathing.

“No,” he says—_whispers,_ and it _is_ him, driving them back, rage white-hot as the word rips from his throat. “No! _Hermann!_”

His knees hit the floor; too hard.

The other doesn’t have a pulse.

He dredges up faint memories; begins chest-compressions. In his mind, he furiously wills Hermann to do this, to not bee we _fucking_ gone.

Ribs bend and crack under his hands; his arms burn with the force of it; they’re screaming in the back of his mind, but Newt drowns it all out.

There’s blood soaking his hands; pooling on the ground.

Hermann’s heart does not beat.

The paramedics—or guards? Newt can’t tell; his world narrowed to a single point—drag him away; lift Hermann into a stretcher.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” someone says, at some point; he’s in a medbay (when did he get here?). “We’ll need to do a transfer.”

_Live,_ Newt chants, wrists cuffed behind his back.

* * *

“My heart stopped four times,” Hermann tells him; after; skin pale and drawn, but he takes Newt’s hands in his own. “I always did say you’d be the death of me.”

“Not like this,” Newt murmurs; “never like this.”

“I hardly think slipping on kaiju entrails is a more dignified way to go,” Hermann says drily.

Newt avoids his gaze; pulls his hands back. “You should leave,” he says, “there’s nothing for you here.”

“There’s _you,_” Hermann says; voice so unbearably soft. “It’s always you, Newton.”

“Find someone better,” Newt mutters.

They don’t talk about death the next time Hermann visits.

Newt writes a poem on the wall about slow-onset insanity, and signs it _the ghost of you,_ because it seems ironic to, given it’s ripped off of a love-poem he wrote Hermann ten years ago.

* * *

They let him out eventually. Newt’s not really sure why.

He doesn’t look the gift-horse in the mouth, though; takes the opportunity to donate most of his money to the rebuilding effort and fucks off to a cottage in the woods three-hundred-thousand miles away.

It takes Hermann two weeks to come knocking on his door in the assfuck middle of nowhere.

“I brought cookies,” he says, thrusting the box towards Newt. “Snickerdoodles. Soft-baked.”

“Store-bought,” Newt says, instead of pointing out that it’s a bad idea for him to be here.

Hermann shrugs. “I can’t bake,” he replies. “And I thought you’d appreciate them unburnt.”

Newt sighs; takes the box and shoves the door open with hours shoulder, the warm air blowing out. “Come in,” he says, and tries to convince himself it’s only because it’s the polite thing to do.

There’s a card taped on top of the box. It’s got a badly drawn heart on it. _You’re a really heart-stopper,_ it says. Newt scowls.

“I hate your sense of humour,” he says.

Hermann shrugs. “It’s yours,” he replies. “More you know why I hated your jokes all those years ago.”

They end up huddled together on the sofa. Newt doesn’t have a lot of furniture, so it’s partially out of necessity.

“I miss you,” Hermann tells him; head resting against his shoulder; fingers knotting the frayed edges of the blanket together.

Newt blinks at him; slow. “You miss having someone you know around,” he corrects.

“No, I miss _you,_” Hermann says.

Newt presses his lips; doesn’t reply to that—because how _can_ he? So instead he just lets his eyes drift shut and pretends like he doesn’t notice when Hermann’s fingers wander into his.

“You make awful decisions,” he says, instead.

Hermann hums; doesn’t answer to that.

* * *

Hermann stays the night.

Newt wakes up with a crick in his neck, a dry throat, and the warmth of another on his skin, not yet faded; the blanket tucked carefully around him.

He wanders into the kitchen; finds a message on the fridge. _Went to get tea. Back by nine. H_

His fingers hover, for a moment, before he pulls them away; leaves the words, letters’ usually sharp peaks softened by dry-erase marker, where they are; smiles, inadvertent.

There’s something resembling a plate of toast and eggs when he wakes up; a cup of hot-chocolate (instant mix, going by the scent) off to the side.

Newt nibbles at the toast, scrapes the eggs—burnt—into the garbage, and waters the avocado seed he planted last week with the hot chocolate.

Something warm blooms in his stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](autisticharrow.tumblr.com) on tumblr


End file.
